


A Wee Christmas Gift

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Graphic Birth Scene, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: Sherlock was awoken early Christmas morning by the feeling of a hand sliding across his ribs and cupping one tender, swollen breast. He huffed a sigh through his nose and made a noise of acknowledgement, blinking awake. It was still dark outside, but the room was dimly lit by John’s lamp.“Happy Christmas,” John murmured into Sherlock’s neck, his breath tickling Sherlock’s curly hair.“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock replied, his voice rough from sleep.





	A Wee Christmas Gift

**Author's Note:**

> So I did roughly zero world building here, but this story is meant to be set in the 1700s in an English country manor where John and Sherlock are the lords of the estate. With that in mind, enjoy. Merry Christmas to all of my followers. <3

“This baby can come any time,” Sherlock sighed, settling carefully into his chair. “I can’t get anything done, big as I am now.” A stack of unwashed laundry was heaped into a basket next to him, and the water tub was letting off steam as it cooled. He was mid-way through scrubbing a shirt when the position became too taxing on his spine, and he was forced to rest. 

 

“You shouldn’t be doing anything,” John chastised gently, pinning a wet shirt to the line and picking up where Sherlock had left off. “I told you I’d do the cleaning until the baby came. You insisted you were capable.” He gave his partner a wink and knelt to scrub the soil from his shirt. 

 

“I want to feel like I’m good for  _ something, _ ” Sherlock sighed, resting a hand on his belly. “All I do now is eat and rest. And you have to work harder to make up for my laziness.”

 

“You are not lazy,” John replied, shaking his head. “You’re nearly finished growing a baby, love, you have good reason to be tired all the time.” 

 

The baby moved within him, sending a shooting pain up Sherlock’s spine that made him wince and gasp. “Enough, little one,” he hissed. 

 

“See? Even she’s trying to tell you that you need to relax,” John said, brow furrowed in concern. “You’ve been working too much, exhausting yourself. You need to rest more. Leave the work to me.” 

 

“No, I’m no use to you laid up in bed.” Sherlock exhaled slowly and waited for the pain to dissipate. “I can manage the rest of the laundry, if you can go to town and get our goods for the week. I’ve made a list.” He stood up with a grunt and pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “I meant to get them myself, but I’m not sure I can walk there and back and remain in one piece.” He rubbed his side slowly. 

 

“You can leave the laundry for later, love. I’ll go shopping for us and finish this when I get back.” John smiled kindly. He rose from his kneeling position, wringing out the shirt he’d washed, and pinned it to the line before drying his hands and laying them on Sherlock’s full belly. “Wee thing isn’t quite so wee anymore.” 

 

“No, not anymore,” Sherlock agreed, looking down at his swollen middle. “Ready to come any day now, I think.” 

 

“Well, perhaps she’ll share a birthday with our Lord,” John said, running his hand over Sherlock’s bump. “If she waits a few more days, she just might.” 

 

“If,” Sherlock agreed. 

  
  
  


Sherlock was awoken early Christmas morning by the feeling of a hand sliding across his ribs and cupping one tender, swollen breast. He huffed a sigh through his nose and made a noise of acknowledgement, blinking awake. It was still dark outside, but the room was dimly lit by John’s lamp. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” John murmured into Sherlock’s neck, his breath tickling Sherlock’s curly hair. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock replied, his voice rough from sleep. His body was achy and tired, even though he’d just woken up and hadn’t yet moved. He could feel the heat of John’s body at his back, and could particularly feel the heat of his prick as it rested in the curve of his backside. “It’s been some time. I wondered if maybe you didn’t want me like this,” Sherlock said, although even as he said it he wasn’t sure he was comfortable enough for John to fuck him. The pressure in his pelvis was insistent and his hips already ached, even before he had stood up and put weight on the joints. 

 

“Never,” John replied, kissing Sherlock’s earlobe. “You’ve been so tired and ready for the baby to come, I didn’t think you’d want me. Do you?” 

 

“I always want you,” Sherlock said, though doubt still weighed in his mind. He could put his discomfort aside for a brief time, if it meant having his husband. “You might have to allow me some laziness, though. I don’t think I’m up for much of an active role.” 

 

“Of course,” John said, groping Sherlock’s breast. Sherlock bit back a noise - he was tender there, and his nipple was pert and hard and sensitive where John’s hand rubbed it roughly. “You can lie like this, if you’re comfortable. I can make love to you this way.” 

 

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, gently pushing John’s hand away from his breast. “It’s tender,” he explained, “Hurts a little when you rub over the nipple.” 

 

“I’ll mind that,” John said, cupping his hand carefully over Sherlock’s belly and moving closer, pressing his body against Sherlock’s from behind. Sherlock could feel his hardness pressed against his rear, hot and firm. “You’re tender all over, aren’t you?” 

 

“I am.” Sherlock groaned and shifted back on the bed, resting along John’s body. “Very ready for the baby to come. She feels ready,” he said, stroking his rounded belly. He took John’s hand and traced the baby’s position with their joined hands. “Her head is down, and her feet are in my ribs. She feels so big,” he said, feeling a nervous thrill shoot up his spine and settle in his stomach - she was truly ready to come any day, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for her arrival. 

 

“I can’t wait to meet her,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s stomach lovingly. He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and slid his hand further down, until his fingers were brushing the sparse hairs of his pubic area, teasing Sherlock’s own cock to life. “But for now I want you to lie back and enjoy this. My gift to you. To make you feel good, give you something to focus on other than the baby you’re worrying about.” 

 

Sherlock chuckled lightly. “As if I could think of much else, with her as...present as she is.” 

 

“Well, I’ll do my best. Let me try?” John asked, tipping Sherlock’s chin toward himself to kiss him softly. 

 

“Of course.” 

 

Sherlock let John kiss him softly for awhile, until he forgot his discomfort and deepened the kisses. John lifted his nightshirt and tossed it away, then stripped off his own and pushed the bedsheets aside. The chill of the room was forgotten as the heat of their bodies warmed the air, and their breaths mingled between them. 

 

The baby kicked and Sherlock’s aches came back to life, pulling the air from his lungs as he gasped. “Oh,” he breathed, closing his eyes against the swell of pain. John put his hand on Sherlock’s swollen belly and waited for Sherlock to recover, looking worried. 

 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, but Sherlock shook his head fiercely. 

 

“No, don’t,” he said, still short of breath. “I’ll be fine. Keep going.” 

 

John started back up slowly, kissing the space between Sherlock’s breasts and waiting until his breath had steadied. When he had calmed, John laid him on his back, which made the ache in his hips and spine roar, but Sherlock breathed through the pain until it had mostly passed. John hooked one hand under Sherlock’s thigh and lifted it, which made Sherlock hiss with discomfort as his hip ground in its socket. The nervous feeling in his stomach flared up and made him nauseous for a long moment, and though he tried to hide it John was obviously able to see his pain. 

 

“Darling, I’m not sure you really want me,” he said, taking Sherlock’s shaking hand and squeezing it. “If you’re hurting too badly, we don’t need to. I don’t want to hurt you further.” 

 

“No, please,” Sherlock replied, opening his eyes and blinking away watery tears. He wanted John, more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. He had missed the closeness between them as his burden grew heavier, and wanted to feel close to his husband now more than ever. “It hurts me, but I want you anyway. I know you’ll make me feel better. Please, don’t stop.” 

 

John looked worried, but he dropped a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s inverted navel and nuzzled his full bump with his stubbly cheek. “If you’re sure,” he said, and waited for Sherlock’s nod of insistence before slowly and carefully moving Sherlock’s thighs wider apart to give himself more room to work him open. 

 

The pressure within him only increased with the addition of John’s fingers, first one, then two and three stretching him open. Despite the discomfort his body responded in the usual way to the stimulation, lubricating his passageway and easing the slide of John’s fingers inside him. By the time John had three fingers pumping in and out of him, Sherlock was well ready to be fucked, his chest heaving and flushed, nipples pert and pearling with early milk. 

 

John ducked his head and licked one nipple, his tongue soft and careful. Sherlock shivered as his saliva cooled on his skin. “Yes,” he murmured, threading his fingers through John’s hair. “Please, yes.” He moaned quietly as John pushed his fingers deeper inside, curling to press on the bundle of nerves deep inside his channel, nerves that made his stomach clench and his cock jerk with arousal. 

 

John’s fingers withdrew and Sherlock pried his eyes open to watch John slick himself with the fluids that were on his fingers - a sight that always made him groan with want. He was so ready for John, so far gone that the achiness of his body was forgotten. John slid inside, filling him where he was empty, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the deep moan that was pulled from his throat at the feeling. He clutched at John’s arms with his fingers, nails biting into the skin, bearing down on John’s cock as he pushed inside. 

 

“Oh, yes,” John breathed, dropping his head to kiss Sherlock’s flushed breastbone. His skin was hot and damp with sweat and John hadn’t even moved yet. “So tight, Sherlock.” He pumped his hips once, sliding out and pushing back in, and it stole the air from Sherlock’s lungs. Sherlock sighed and spread his hips wider, ignoring the deep ache in his joints and his spine as he gave John more room to move. 

 

“Wasn’t sure I had...any more space in my body...for you to fit inside,” Sherlock said, dropping a hand to his belly. His skin was firm, stretched tight, pale in the dim light of the lamp at their bedside. The baby was still inside him, though he could feel every tiny movement of her body - the shifting of a fist, or a foot. He felt heavy and slow, and was glad that John was willing to do the work for them both this time. 

 

“You’re tighter than I remember you being,” John admitted, laying his palm on Sherlock’s belly and sliding it over the smooth surface. “She’s taking up a lot of room. Feels good, though. Good for you?” he asked, rolling his hips again and setting a slow, gentle pace. 

 

It had taken a moment to adjust to the pressure and feeling of fullness, but it was only ever be a good feeling when John was inside him. “Very good,” Sherlock said. The nauseous feeling in his stomach, which had ebbed a little, came back with force and made Sherlock swallow to keep it down, but it passed after a moment. Something about the position was making him feel slightly ill, but he didn’t want to move again, lest the pain in his hips and spine reawaken and bother him again. He let John fuck him, slowly and tenderly, and let his body relax. 

 

John’s orgasm came first, with him stiffening over top of Sherlock and breathing his name hot into his ear as he shuddered and came. Sherlock felt him spill inside his body and shivered at the sensation, the heavy weight between his hips reminding him that this was how she, too, had started - in their shared passion. 

 

Sherlock was close but not quite there, but it only took a few tugs on his cock to have him gasping and quaking with orgasm. Contractions of pleasure rippled up his body and sent sparks flying through his nerves, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the battling feelings of pleasure and pain. His hips were sore and his spine smarting from the long stretch of time that he’d been laid on his back with so much weight resting on his spine, but the sweet soft feelings of satisfaction from his orgasm dulled the discomfort of it all. 

 

“I hope that was gift enough for you,” John said in his ear, tucking an errant curl back into place. Sherlock blinked his eyes open and found he was already smiling. “I’ve got others for you, of course, but I’ve never known a morning romp to be a bad way to start any day, let alone Christmas.” 

 

“No, it was wonderful,” Sherlock said, gathering his wits enough to sit up on his elbows. He almost instantly regretted the change in position as it made his whole spine radiate pain, but he needed to clean himself and get ready for the day regardless of how much pain he was in. His belly rested heavy on his thighs, and his breasts hung full and aching on his chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do much,” he sighed, sliding toward the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over so he could ease himself into standing up. “My back and hips already hurt, and I haven’t even stood up yet.” 

 

“Hopefully I didn’t make anything worse,” John said, rising easily from the bed and crossing around to help pull Sherlock up. 

 

“No, none of it is your fault. Well,” he amended, briefly cocking an eyebrow. “In a roundabout way, you’re partially at fault, but she’s the one truly to blame.” He grunted as John took his hands and pulled him up to stand, leaving him breathless and in pain but standing upright at least. “God, I’m ready for her to come.” 

 

“I think she’s ready to meet us,” John said, sliding his hands down Sherlock’s swollen sides. His belly was full and round with their child - they didn’t know the sex, really, but Sherlock had a feeling he knew - and his bump was lower now than it had been even a few days ago. He felt like he was ready to go into labour at any time, but hadn’t seen any signs just yet. He drew in a shallow breath and let it out slowly, cupping his overlarge bump and rubbing over his aching hips. 

 

“I hope so. She could come any day now. I’d prefer sooner rather than later, if you can hear me, little one,” he murmured, smiling down at his belly. 

 

The cook had made them a light breakfast, knowing Sherlock’s morning appetite was all but gone with the baby as close as she was. “Christmas lunch will be ready at noon,” she told them as Sherlock picked at his oatmeal. The nauseous feeling from earlier had returned, leaving his stomach unsettled. He wasn’t sure whether eating would make him feel better or worse. Not wanting to concern his husband, he ate most of the bowl, despite the oatmeal sitting in his stomach like a brick. 

 

“There’s not much for us to do today,” John said, scraping up the last of his own breakfast. Most of their staff had the day off for the holiday, to spend with their families - even their cook was only staying through lunch and was spending the evening with her husband and daughters. She picked up Sherlock’s mostly-eaten bowl and stacked it inside John’s, looking at Sherlock, slightly concerned. He almost made an excuse to her but the upset feeling in his stomach reared its head again, and he rested his face in his hands and waited for it to pass. 

 

She caught him on his way out of the dining room a few minutes later, touching his arm. “You don’t look well, if you don’t mind me saying, sir,” she said. “Should I make you a cup of ginger tea, to settle your stomach?” 

 

Sherlock forced a smile and shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he said, feeling anything but. “Just the aches of pregnancy, I’m afraid.” 

 

“I’m familiar,” she said kindly, taking his hand in hers. He hadn’t realized how clammy his palms were until they were pressed against her warm, dry ones. “I’ll make the tea anyway, and bring it to you with some herbs for the pain. You should rest, as much as you can before your little one comes.” 

 

He didn’t dare refuse her kindness, so he nodded in acquiesce and smiled as she let his hand go. He shuffled into their sitting room and lowered himself onto the sofa, biting back a noise of pain when his back smarted again. Amelia appeared a few minutes later with a tray of tea and a few bland biscuits. “Ginger to soothe your stomach, and willow root for the pain. This should help,” she said, setting the tray down on the side table and pulling a blanket over his body. The warmth was welcome, as was the tea - she’d given him ginger often in the early days of his pregnancy when nausea threatened to upset him several times a day. Sherlock took the tea gratefully and had a small sip as she left the room, only to return a moment later. 

 

“Is there something else?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation. She looked undecided as she stood in the doorway, and then suddenly nodded and came back to where he rested on the sofa. 

 

“It’s only just,” she started, sounding unsure. “It’s just that I worry for you, sir, and I wonder if perhaps the cause for your pain isn’t your little one’s arrival time come to pass.” 

 

It took Sherlock a moment to figure out what she meant. He smiled at her and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, patting his belly. “I haven’t felt any contractions, just the nausea. That’s one symptom that hasn’t stopped plaguing me throughout this whole ordeal,” he said, his mouth twisting wanly. “And the pain in my hips and spine is nothing new, either. She’s ready to come any day, but I don’t think it’ll be today. I thank you for your concern, though,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. 

 

“If you’re sure, sir,” she said, nodding in understanding. “Rest, then, until lunch, and then we can all enjoy our Christmas day with our families.” 

 

Sherlock dozed for most of the morning, while John sat at his desk writing replies to letters they had received the week prior. The ginger tea helped settle his stomach and the willow root seemed to dull some of the pain, but by the time Amelia returned to tell them that lunch was served, he was back to feeling as poorly as he had that morning, if not worse. 

 

“Perhaps we should postpone our dinner until tomorrow night, if you’re feeling unwell?” John asked, helping Sherlock to his feet and steadying him as he swayed uneasily. 

 

“I don’t think I’ll feel any better tomorrow,” Sherlock said, his mouth and stomach feeling sour as he walked alongside John toward the dining hall. “I think it’s the baby. She’s so big she’s just...pressing on everything. Making my stomach sick and making it hard to breathe.” He laid a hand on his side and rubbed soothingly, hoping that soon he would be free from the misery of late pregnancy. 

 

Sherlock only picked at his lunch, unable to enjoy Amelia’s wonderful cooking thanks to the nausea that had only grown worse as the day went on. “I think I might go lie down in the bed and rest for awhile,” he said when their plates were cleared. He felt green about the gills, his palms clammy and every joint in the lower half of his body aching and painful. 

 

John helped him into bed and covered him with their blankets, bundling him in against the chill of the wintry Christmas weather. Sherlock mumbled a tired thanks and curled in on himself until his thighs cradled his heavy belly, conserving body heat as he shivered in fits. 

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours, drifting off only to be woken by waves of nausea and pain in his hips and lower back. He tried changing positions, over and over and over, stuffing pillows in areas where he needed more support, but all to no avail. Finally he gave up on rest and got up, dragging the blankets with him down to the sitting room where John was working. 

 

“Feeling any better, love?” John asked, standing up to meet Sherlock with a gentle kiss to the forehead. “Your forehead is feverish, god. Do you need me to send for a doctor?” 

 

“No,” Sherlock said miserably, sinking down into a pitiful pile on the sofa. “I’ll be alright, I don’t think it’s anything serious. I couldn’t sleep, could hardly rest at all. I gave up and thought I’d come down here so I could at least be with you.” 

 

“Well, I’m happy to spend a little time on Christmas just being together,” John said kindly, sitting down beside his unwell husband and rubbing his knee. “I wonder if I didn’t upset you somehow, with my...affections this morning. You haven’t hurt this badly before.” 

 

“No, it wasn’t you, I’m sure of that,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “I think it’s just the baby being so close. I felt unwell even when I woke up, so I don’t think you caused it.” He shivered as another bout of nausea threatened at his throat, and he laid a hand on the top of his belly, rubbing as his stomach twisted unpleasantly. 

 

“You poor thing,” John said, leaning over to kiss Sherlock’s flushed cheek. “Whatever it is, I hope it passes soon, for your sake. It’s no good to spend Christmas bundled up and feeling ill.” 

 

The evening passed, with John reading Sherlock news from the papers and catching him up on the gossip of the past few days. 

 

“...and Amelia told me this morning that she heard Mr and Mrs Sandringham have been on the outs, some spat over a possible indiscretion of his. There seems to be some question over the relationship between himself and his stable master -”

 

“John,” Sherlock said, biting back a wave of nausea. 

 

“I know, it was a surprise to me, too. It’s not out of character for him, though, you know he’s always been a bit -” 

 

“No, not that - John, I -” Sherlock lurched to his feet, ignoring the pain in his hips and back as he made his way toward the door. John jumped up to follow, concerned. “I - oh -  _ oh --” _

 

Sherlock gripped the doorframe with one hand and held his belly with the other, his knees quaking. A cramp had gripped his belly and made his whole midsection twist, drawing him downward. “John, I think - I think I think I ohhh, oh god -” 

 

He shivered and let out a little cry when he felt his insides twist again and then felt a wetness spill from within him, slicking his thighs and wetting the blankets that were still half wrapped around him. Almost before he was able to realize that his waters had just broken, the pain increased, and made him almost drop to his knees. He would have done, if John hadn’t caught him by the arms and held him up. 

 

“Is that - Sherlock, are you - is it the baby?” he asked, the panic clear in his voice. 

 

Sherlock swallowed around the little he’d eaten that day which was threatening to come back up. He gripped John’s arms and nodded, feeling weak. “I think I - mmnnn,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Oh, John, it’s coming, she’s coming,  _ please. _ ” He could feel the pressure of her head low in his body, making his hips grind in their sockets, so big it felt like his bones might actually be stretching to make room for her. 

 

“Right, alright, to bed with you,” John said, trying to pick Sherlock back up from the half-kneeling position he’d fallen into. Sherlock shook his head and went half limp, clutching his belly with one hand and holding onto John’s arm with the other. 

 

“Can’t,” he said, shaking his head and closing his eyes against the vertigo. “Can’t. She’s  _ coming, _ ” he said urgently, sliding his hand further down, down between his thighs, where wet cloth clung to his skin. “Coming,” he said, looking up at John desperately. 

 

“Coming here? Coming  _ now? _ ” John said incredulously, kneeling down in front of Sherlock. “Your waters just broke, you can’t be so close already.”

 

Sherlock’s mind skipped from thought to thought. His perpetual nausea, the achiness in his hips and back, his poor constitution and appetite throughout the day - and the sweeping bouts of nausea that made his stomach twist, over and over and over again all afternoon. He shook his head. “Didn’t just start,” he said breathlessly, shivering. “Amelia as much as told me, but I didn’t believe her. I can’t get up, John, I’m going to have her here.” 

 

“Didn’t believe her?” John asked, narrowing his eyes. “Sherlock, she’s had three girls on her own. If she thought you were in labor, you should have listened, you should have called for the doctor  _ hours ago, _ how am I supposed to help you deliver a baby?” 

 

Sherlock wanted to cry, but before he could consider what to do, he felt another contraction - this one unmistakeable for anything other than precisely what it was - sweep through his belly. He gasped and gritted his teeth against the pain, feeling an unfamiliar pressure deep down inside himself. It wasn’t until the end of the contraction, when he relaxed a little, that he realized the pressure was his baby’s head, deep in the birth canal, and that his body wanted him to push. The puzzle pieces clicked into place and he took a deep, shuddering breath, lowering himself to his knees and steadying himself against John. 

 

“Help me with my clothes,” he said, pulling the blankets off. “And put these underneath me. She’s - oh, god, she’s coming right here, right now.”

 

John helped him strip off his wet trousers and his outer garments, leaving him in his shirtsleeves draped loosely over his swollen body. Free of his clothing, Sherlock spread his knees and settled into a position that felt right - knees wide, hips open, in a deep crouch. He reached forward and took John’s hand. “I need to lean on you,” he said, sure that another contraction would be on him within moments. 

 

He was right. He had just enough time to lace his fingers together behind John’s neck, holding him upright, before another contraction gripped him, and this time he listened to his body and bore down hard. He shook with the force of his push, gritting his teeth and pushing soundlessly until the contraction eased. 

 

“Good job,” John said, sounding unsure of himself. Sherlock exhaled a laugh and shook his head, burying his face in John’s collarbone. 

 

“Was it? I have no way of knowing,” he said, shaking his head. 

 

“Neither do I, but you were pushing, and I think that’s what I’m meant to say,” John said with a grin, and Sherlock broke a smile. 

 

“I think you’re right,” he said, gathering his strength for the next contraction. “It felt right, and it’s the best I’ve felt since I woke up this morning.” 

 

“Including when we made love?” John joked, mock offended. 

 

Sherlock laughed, but the end of his laugh was cut off by the onset of another contraction. He pushed again, and this time he felt her move within him, felt her blunt head moving further down. He couldn’t stay quiet - the pain intensified as he pushed, as she spread him wide and shoved her way through his narrow pelvis. He cried out and shoved hard at the tail end of the contraction and ended it panting, knees spread wide, his whole body shaking. 

 

“Oh - oh, John, it hurts,” he said, breathing harshly. “Hurts - she’s so big.” He grunted and rode out the discomfort of the position he was in, with his baby so close and spreading him wide. 

 

“She’s so close, love,” John said, leaning forward and kissing his forehead. “You’ll have her here in no time.” 

 

Sherlock bore down with the next contraction, and felt the burning that his doctors had told him of - the baby was crowning, he knew, by the stretch and the burning feeling that came along with it. “She’s crowning,” he rasped, his thighs quivering. He slid one hand down and felt his skin stretched and pushed outward in an unfamiliar way - and then, just there beneath his fingers, his baby’s head emerging. 

 

“Incredible,” John breathed, kneading Sherlock’s shoulder. “Almost there, you’ve almost done it.” 

 

Another contraction, and this one brought her head forth. He cupped it with one hand, still holding himself up with the other, and breathed through the shocking pain. “Her head is out,” he gasped, and John’s sharp inhalation of breath brought an exhausted smile to his face. 

 

“Shoulders, now, and you’ll have her,” John said, and his voice was shaking and thick with tears. “You incredible man, you’ll have her.” 

 

Sherlock could only nod and bear down again, feeling her body rotate within his, moving down and out bit by bit. Her shoulders spread him even wider than her head had, and tears sprang to his eyes as he tried to push them forth. “I can’t,” he said, his voice hoarse from pain and exhaustion. “I can’t, she’s too big.”

 

“You can and you must,” John said, squeezing his shoulders. “You can’t give up, Sherlock, she needs you. She needs her mother.” Sherlock could hear the tears in his voice. 

 

He gathered his strength and pushed hard, harder than before, harder than he thought he could manage. He shouted and clenched his teeth, tucking his chin to his chest and shoving with all his might. The contraction was waning but he didn’t stop, bearing down hard until finally he felt her shoulders breach his body and slide out of him. 

 

He let out a cry and reached with shaking arms to grab his baby’s body. Ignorant of the pain he took her in his hands and pulled her from him, cradling her close as she took in a shuddering breath and cried, her voice reedy but strong as it echoed through the halls of their home. 

 

“It’s a girl,” Sherlock said tearfully, wiping blood from her face and holding her close to his body as she wailed and waved her wet fists. “It’s a girl, John.”

 

John picked up a blanket and draped it over her little body, protecting her from the chill of the air. “A daughter,” he said, as though in disbelief as he watched her. “Our daughter, our baby. Our  _ baby _ , Sherlock, you just had our  _ baby _ !” 

 

“I did,” Sherlock said. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, but he blinked them away - he couldn’t take his eyes off the perfect creature squalling in his arms. 

 

“What shall we call her?” John asked, picking up a blanket and laying it over Sherlock’s shaking shoulders as he helped his husband sit and lean against the wall for support. “Our little Christmas gift?” 

 

“Elise,” Sherlock said, whispering the name that had come to him in a dream months ago. “I want to call her Elise.”

 

“Well then, Merry Christmas, Elise,” John said, looking down at their daughter as she quieted in Sherlock’s arms. “She wasn’t the gift I expected, but she’s certainly the one I was looking forward to most.” 

 

“She’s the only thing I wanted this year,” Sherlock said, kissing her warm forehead. “The perfect Christmas gift.” 

  
  



End file.
